When I came home early, I overheard Samantha whispering, “I can’t tell Mom the truth. She’ll hate me forever.” My heart pounded.
I couldn’t imagine what secret she was hiding. Samantha, now sixteen, had always been my heart. But that day, she seemed different—nervous,
distant. When I confronted her, she confessed: “I did an ancestry test. It says you’re not my biological mother. ”The words hit me like a punch.
I took her hand and gently explained, “Your biological mother didn’t want you. But your dad—he wanted you more than anything. And when I met you,
I knew you were mine, no matter what. ”Samantha’s eyes filled with tears. “You adopted me? ”“Yes,” I said, “but I’ve always seen you as my daughter.
You’re my blood, my heart, my dearest girl.” She clung to me, sobbing, “I thought you’d hate me. ”“Never,” I whispered. “You belong. You always have.
”In that moment, I knew: love isn’t about DNA. It’s about the family we choose. Samantha was chosen, and she was mine, always
